November
Chris, aching like an arthritic old man, swung his leg over his bike and clipped into the pedals. He cursed having checked the text message earlier that morning from his cycling friend, Andy, because it had guilted him into action first thing and, reluctantly, he’d made a large bowl of porridge and prepared a bottle of energy drink.
‘Remember, Chubbs, if it’s not on Strava, it didn’t happen,’ Andy had texted.
Chris was grateful really, because without these nudges and reminders to keep going and keep busy, he still wasn’t sure whether or not he’d retreat back into apathy.
It had been Andy who had dragged him out on his bike earlier that year. He’d turned up one afternoon, uninvited, let himself in the back door, and taken one look at Chris. He was slumped on the sofa, as had become the norm after his wife Gail had died, surrounded by the detritus of a man who’d given up on himself. Andy had set about getting this broken human back on track the only way he knew – cycling. He’d rifled through his friend’s kit in the under-stairs cupboard to find cycling shorts, jersey, shoes, helmet, and gloves, then searched for the track pump to put some air in the tyres of the carbon machine that lived on the wall in the study.
After months and months of relative inactivity, that first ride with Andy had hurt: his backside, lower back, shoulders, hands, forearms, and legs all ached as if he had been wrestling. Slowly, the aches and pains had diminished and he noticed his muscles becoming slightly more defined again. The sharp burning sensation as he pushed down on the pedals reminded him of the days when he thought nothing of cycling fifty miles in a morning, but he still hated it.
Today, months down the line, once he was out, he felt content to be in his element again, heading down the Lorton Valley towards Buttermere and made a mental note to send his thanks to Andy for the reminders to keep going. As it was a beautiful November day, he planned to grab one of the benches outside the cafe down there. He enjoyed the feel of early winter sunshine on his face and had always been a people watcher. In spite of his reluctantly eaten bowl of porridge earlier, he now craved one of those crumbly scones washed down with an Americano. Hunger now motivated him more often and he ate a more varied diet, but he still hadn’t got round to cooking himself a meal from scratch. Somehow it didn’t seem important at the moment. He just needed to stop the rumbling in his stomach.
As he headed out onto the main road down to the lake, he swore at a red 4x4 that passed him just a bit too close; the driver was too busy yacking with her friends to bother to give him enough leeway. He shook his head and, not for the first time, questioned why so many drivers didn’t seem to know the width of their vehicle. Irritated now, he stood up on the pedals and pumped his legs hard, feeling the burn in his tired muscles until he could see the view open out in front of him. Skiddaw, one of the highest mountains in England, then Sale Fell, Ling Fell, Whinlatter Pass, and, just visible from this angle, the tops of the fells that ringed Crummock Water. The sight never failed to move him, even though he’d known them most of his life.
As he turned right at the junction, once again his heart beat slightly faster with an emotion he’d never quite been able to understand. What was it about this landscape, the light playing through the clouds and the incredible mix of colours: green, tinged with orange bracken; black rock and grey scree. No one had ever called Chris creative, but as a young boy he’d been uninhibited in his art classes, producing work that astonished the teaching staff with its maturity. The system had stomped down on that, though, until he’d just not bothered with arty stuff anymore.
This road was freewheeling heaven as it swooped down the valley towards the mountains and lakes, but Chris knew to slow down through the narrows as the edges of the tarmac had broken away, leaving treacherous, wheel-buckling holes for unwary cyclists. Strained muscles and tired limbs brought a wince to his face when the road kicked up through the woods, which in spring wore a carpet of bluebells. He felt his stomach rumble again, but it wouldn’t take him long to reach the cafe where Tom, his youngest, was working post A levels while he decided whether to take up his place at university.
A moment’s lack of concentration and Chris swore when he had to brake hard and whip his left foot out from the cleats to stop from falling off. It was that damn monster of a car again – stopped in the middle of the road. Its three occupants had piled out and were pointing their phones at the sky and the mountains.
‘Morning,’ he snapped at them as he squeezed past, making a point of putting his hand on the side of the pristine vehicle. Someone is very proud of this hunk of metal, he thought, and I don’t reckon it’s you, love. He stared hard at one of the women, rather mousy-looking, in her early forties, who almost dropped her car keys and jumped out of her baggy jogging bottoms and fleecy top. Miles away. He shook his head, but held back a stream of verbal abuse.
Once far enough past the women so as not to be seen by them, he stole a glance across towards the lake. Actually, those women had a point. He unclipped his left foot in a more controlled way this time, applied the brakes, and skidded elegantly to a stop in the loose gravel at the side of the road.
Three shafts of light fell out of the chaotic clouds and struck down deep into the metallic sheen of the lake. It was like God was throwing huge amounts of energy and power into the water, not caring who he distracted. Beautiful. There was no denying it.
A loud toot made him jump as the red 4x4 rolled past him – its engine ghostly and quiet in an expensive sort of way. Nothing tasteful about its passengers though: waving and calling out ‘Hellooooooo!’ and ‘It’s us again!’ Why were they so damn cheerful? Now he was stuck behind them. This section of road that ran close to the lakeshore oozed danger, not just from oncoming vehicles, potholes and rocks dislodged from the dry stone walls, but often from the nonchalant sheep that wandered aimlessly across the road, or worse still, skittered out in front of you for no logical reason whatsoever. Herdwicks, bred to survive harsh winters out on the fells, guardians of Lakeland, and, as such, to be respected and chivvied along out of the way, not sworn at and driven into.
Resigned, he hung back about 100 metres from the car, far enough to avoid being gassed by the exhaust, but close enough to see, by the way in which the three women were moving their heads and gesticulating, that the conversation was free ranging and hilarious.
He had grown used to quiet. His son, Tom, shared staff accommodation at the hotel near the cafe and his daughter, Clare, lived with her boyfriend near Lancaster.
Needing to shrug off the sudden flood of memories that hit him when he remembered what a noisy family they had once been, he reminded himself how annoyed he’d be if those women were heading for coffee and cakes in the same cafe and took either of his favourite tables. Thankfully, under the stand of Scots pines, the red car pulled over and parked. He raised his left hand to say thanks and pushed down with some force on the pedals as he sailed past. Glad to be on the open road again, he embraced the power in his legs and dropped a gear or two. It felt good. He felt invincible.
* * *
Angela, Holly and Stevie
‘Did you see how cross that cyclist looked?’ Angela picked up her small, neatly packed rucksack from the boot and then reached up to pull it closed. ‘I thought he was going to scratch the car.’ She winced, remembering how he and his bike had been within millimetres of Ed’s precious vehicle. How would she explain a scratch on the door? Somebody’s shopping trolley in the car park? She really didn’t want to tell him the truth because she knew how he would be against her swimming in the lake because of the way his father had drowned, but it upset her to have to lie to him. Or, more to the point, she was keeping the secret safe from his mother, who she suspected would be far more vocal about the subject.
Therein lay the problem: his mother and how much Ed was under her thumb, to the point that he sided with her over so many things to do with life on the farm. It seemed an impossible situation and she just didn’t know how to deal with it. Put up with it until it became intolerable, she guessed.
‘Hang on, I just need my—’ Her blonde expensively perfumed swim buddy nudged her out of the way and grabbed a bright pink, already inflated, tow float from the boot.
‘Sorry, Holly.’ Angela smiled, stepping out of the way.
‘Are you okay, Angela?’ Hearing her own name was enough to bring her back from wherever she had drifted. She saw that Holly was peering at her anxiously. It would have been a good opportunity to offload some of the questions that were constantly chasing around in her head, but she didn’t want to spoil the day. It was such a stunning morning; no one needed to hear her moaning about stuff.
‘I’m fine, thanks. Mmmm, you smell nice.’ Some exaggerated sniffing of Holly made all three women laugh and that nearly triggered the tears she was holding back. ‘Is that a new perfume?’ she asked as she slammed the boot shut, triggered the central locking, and joined the other two.
It was a short stroll back down the single-track road towards the place where they usually swam.
‘Yep, it’s had rave reviews in Elle so I thought I’d treat myself seeing as it’s nearly my birthday.’
Holly heard Stevie snort suddenly and say, ‘No, it’s not! ‘That’s not until February!’ She felt herself blushing. Was she so transparent? She admitted to herself that her obsession with designer brands was definitely a protective layer of body armour. She suspected that Stevie was astute enough to see that underneath she was a warm, genuine woman who was just scared of growing old.
The water had brought them together only a few weeks ago, and now here they were, middle-aged ladies faffing at the side of the road, with Holly being the main culprit.
‘Ha! I know my birthday’s in February, but—’ She swore and dropped her voluminous bag onto the ground and started to rummage through its contents impatiently.
‘What’ve you forgotten?’ she heard Stevie moan in mock despair. Holly knew herself well and admitted that for someone so outwardly glamorous and confident, she was the least organised person she had ever met. Her swimming bag contained enough kit for several people: spare costumes, swim caps, warm tops, a hairbrush, sunglasses, book, towel plus microfibre changing robe, spare socks, and Sweaty Betty joggers.
It was completely the opposite of Angela’s, which was neat and inconspicuous, trimmed down to the essentials. Stevie used one of those plastic gorilla buckets sold at garden centres and DIY stores. You could easily see what was in it, and, unless you were walking a long distance from the car to a swim spot, it was practical and sturdy.
‘Aha!’ cried Holly, whipping out something pale and flimsy from her bag. ‘I thought I’d forgotten my knickers.’
Stevie rolled her eyes and said, ‘I never bring knickers, especially not posh ones like yours!’
They’d reached the steep, stony path that dropped off the side of the road and led down to a small pebbly beach.
‘They’re tiny, so they must be posh,’ Angela said. ‘Mine are practical black or white ones.’ Her voice sounded almost apologetic, but the other two women stopped what they were doing and waited for her to continue, as if they knew she was needing to talk and not just about the colour of her knickers. ‘I get housekeeping money every week. I know, I’m sure it’s old fashioned, but Ed prefers to do it that way. Anyway, if there’s any left over I put it straight into a grey sock that I keep hidden under the spare bedding in the airing cupboard – my “exit fund”.’
‘God!’ said Holly, but Stevie just nodded gently in an encouraging and understanding sort of way.
‘I really don’t know what I would say to him if he discovered it.’ Her voice broke slightly and the lake itself seemed to be waiting for her to explain what she was wanting to exit from. But, with a slightly sad shrug of her shoulders, she turned away from the others and gave herself a shake from head to toes. ‘I’ll explain another day.’
‘No rush,’ said Stevie. ‘Ready everyone?’
* * *
Down on the shingly beach, each woman headed for her favourite spot on the sloping ground, each grassy dip the perfect size for their bottoms. Angela lifted her pale face to the sun, which, although it was November, still held enough warmth to make a difference.
Each of them breathed in deeply. For Angela, a clean, mossy scent, quite different to the soulless smells back at the farm, wafted across the surface of the dark-looking water. For Holly, a confusing mix of good and vaguely unpleasant made her shudder slightly. Stevie just loved it and took more than one deep breath.
‘How was Norway?’ Holly’s voice was muffled under her thermal layer, which she was busy pulling off over her head.
‘The most exciting thing about the trip was the ice hole, which I’ll tell you about another time, but I was also talking with Emma about something she’s doing that I think would be really cool. How do you fancy making up a mixed relay team?’ She paused to pull off one functional black boot and wool sock, then the other.
Neither of her swim buddies spoke.
‘To swim in a winter swimming championship.’
No response.
She tried again. ‘It’s not until February, so we’ve plenty of time to train.’
She stood up, ready to swim apart from buckling her tow float round her waist.
‘In Norway?’ Angela asked, adjusting her gloves and swim socks.
Whatever Holly said was just an incoherent mumble. She had one glove between her teeth, desperately trying not to transfer any of her pillar box red lip gloss onto the Neoprene, while she was pulling on the other glove. Her two swim buddies were waiting for her and getting chilly.
Finally, Holly joined them both down at the water’s edge. ‘I’m up for that. Sounds exciting.’
‘No, Angela, it’s not in Norway, it’s in Loch Tay. The only thing is— Ooh, that’s chilly!’ Stevie squeaked as she walked slowly and carefully into the water. ‘The only thing is, we need to find a man.’
‘Crumbs!’ Angela tried hard not to squeal as she crept in up to the top of her thin white thighs. ‘Is that Scotland?’
‘A man?’ yelped Holly as she plunged forwards. Arms outstretched for balance, blue eyes closed as if in denial, she slipped and slid across the loose stones and then sploshed into the lake like a wobbly starfish.
‘Oh Holly!’ her swim buddies shrieked crossly. Getting splashed with cold water unexpectedly is a shock, even when you are acclimatised. It’s not the cold, but the lack of warning.
Finally, they were in. Back in the lake, bringing with them a rainbow of emotions, certain that here, in this magical water, they could breathe deep, absorb the smells, tastes and sounds of nature, and re-emerge a short while later, not as three middle-aged women, but as three swim-tanned water warriors.
* * *
While she was getting dressed after their swim Stevie wondered why she hadn’t told Holly and Angela about her night dip in the forest with Arvid. She’d just said she’d had a great time and then launched into telling them about the winter swimming competition idea Emma had put in her head. But it had been more than a great time; it had woken up the fire in her belly, the fire that her ex-husband had very nearly put out by abandoning her for someone else.
It had also confirmed something she’d been feeling for many years of married life to him: he was a controlling man, who, to the outside world, gave the impression of adoring her and their two girls, but in reality spent very little quality time with them. When he did, he made sure it was doing something he thought was a good idea rather than just agreeing to something together as a family. His priority seemed to be work, but he’d never go into detail, even when it took him away from home. It was almost as if he was leading a double life, but if Stevie tried to ask him how his latest trip had gone, or whether he had met any important people, he would just shut her down. It became easier not to ask.
Occasionally, he flew to Oslo for a couple of days, and she longed to ask which restaurants he’d visited and perhaps remind him of the time when he used to take her, but again, he wouldn’t be drawn out in conversation about it. And yet, in hindsight, she realised she’d never once wondered whether there was more to it than work.
But, there in the Norwegian forest, in that delicious pool of very cold water, she had found her sense of self. It had been inside her all along, just buried under everything else.